The Difference Between You and Me Read online

  THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN YOU AND ME

  Celia Hayes

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  About the Author

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  About The Difference Between You and Me

  Can stepping out of your comfort zone lead you to ultimate happiness?

  Trudy Watts has everything she's ever dreamed of: a job that she loves, a successful boyfriend and an ultra-modern apartment in one of the most fashionable parts of London. With a long-awaited promotion due to come her way and her wedding just around the corner, Trudy's life is just perfect…

  That is until catastrophe strikes and her life is turned upside down. She's transferred to Turriff, a remote Scottish town to manage a small, struggling bank branch.

  Her arrival is traumatic and she wishes she was anywhere but here… Until she sees him – Ethan, the charming pub landlord, who seems to enjoy nothing more than to tease her. And it's right there, in that pub, that her life will suddenly change…

  Dedicated to… him again – Mike Shinoda, who for some reason persists in ignoring me.

  Hey, hello? Is there anybody there? I’m not invisible, you know!

  Get your wife a tennis instructor and get yourself over here to Italy, so I can cook you a nice aubergine parmigiana! I don’t want to blow my own trumpet, but my parmigiana is just…

  Contents

  Cover

  Welcome Page

  About The Difference Between You and Me

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About Celia Hayes

  Also by Celia Hayes

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  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Hot Air Balloon on the Thames

  “If the worst comes to the worst, I can always use the curtains. That’s what Scarlett O’Hara did.”

  “But you haven’t got curtains, you’ve got venetian blinds.”

  “I know – but they’re such a lovely peach colour.”

  “Wonderful. Won-der-ful!”

  “My little girl…”

  “I think it needs taking in a bit more on the sides. There, that’s it—”

  “Where? No, that’s the way it’s supposed to be!”

  “We’ll pin it up with a couple of rhinestones and it’ll be fine. Ashley? Bring me the pincushion!”

  “The flower on the waist is too big.”

  “I still prefer the other one.”

  “Oh, don’t be silly!”

  “There, see? All it took was a couple of stitches.”

  “When could you have it ready for?”

  “A couple of days at the outside.”

  What a bizarre scene.

  They’re circling me like hungry sharks, and there I am in the middle, wrapped up in layers and layers of white satin and unable to do anything to stop them.

  “Are you sure you can’t get it done for Wednesday?”

  Oh, for God’s sake! The smell of plastic and air freshener is suffocating me, and they are poking at me and prodding me all the time, the whole lot of them.

  There’s a headache rising up through my cranium and developing into cloudy outcrops between my left temple and the pins holding the headpiece in place. I’m hanging in there for the moment, but if things carry on like this I can’t promise there won’t be a sudden explosion of some rather picturesque language.

  “Just one more second… Trudy, dear, do try to keep still.”

  Yanked about by the dressmaker, grabbed at by his assistant, I cast my eyes over the flock of women surrounding me with an expression somewhere between resignation and dejection.

  “Sublime! A perfect cut. It fits beautifully.”

  That was Aunt Molly. She’s been fifty-nine years old for at least the last twenty years. Proud exponent of botox, black leather trousers and back-combed platinum blonde hair, she seems extremely happy with the ‘Hot Air Balloon over the Thames’ look I’m currently trying not to suffocate inside.

  My mother, Faustine, stands beside her.

  Poor mum. She’s been weeping non-stop since we got in the car. I think I’ve tried on at least six different dresses and the reaction to each has been the same: red eyes, hands clutched to her breast, her voice breaking with emotion and with one unspeakable truth clearly etched upon her heavily-blushered face.

  Which truth is that, you ask?

  It’s Well at least I got one of them married off!

  Not really what you would expect from the person who brought you into the world, I know, but I don’t take it personally. No – I’ve decided not to give a monkey’s. To be honest, I understand how she feels; three daughters, of whom one is a lesbian and one is as avowedly against marriage as she is against the church and the government. I’m the thread mum clings on to so as not to plunge into the sad abyss of Christmases alone eating ready meals. If I let her down, there’ll be no armies of sulky grandchildren in the living room to remind her that the worst has been over for at least ten years and she’ll never have a son-in-law upon whom to vent all her festering anger against the male sex.

  “And what about if we tried the first one again?”

  That was my future mother-in-law’s sister, Violet. A graceful walrus pup clad in sky blue and wearing a pair of ballerinas, she wanders around the room with the expression of an experienced critic, avidly scanning every stitch we have the nerve to show her. Thanks to her, over the years I have formed a very personal and indelible idea of what hell, purgatory and paradise are like.

  And guess which of the three I find myself in right now?

  My, how bright you all are!

  “Now Marianne’s dress… that really was beautiful,” chips in Lisa, the ever present mother of my prospective life partner, holding a pair of gloves against my shoulder to check they are the same colour as the bustier. Her words, pronounced casually, almost accidentally, actually hide a deep-seated dislike of me. She had hoped for something better for her son – the idea was to set him up with the granddaughter of Felix Jackson, a fairly well-known food industry tycoon, but all her strategically planned dinners and casual invitations failed to produce the desired effect. The adored Marianne – a potpourri of Chanel suits, perfectly trimmed poodles and wisteria-coloured Maseratis – ended up on the scrapheap in the space of two martinis at a New Year’s Eve party. The same day that I appeared on the scene, ably demonstrating that a Wonderbra will always beat a smart top even if it is made out of expensive silk, even if it is embroidered – even if it’s actually transparent. Unless, of course, the top happens to contain a D cup, in which case, the best thing to do is admit defeat on that front and concentrate on yo
ur sense of humour.

  Seriously, though – I’m sure that fate played a hand in our meeting.

  I’d had no great plans for New Year’s Eve. I’d only started working as an intern at Wilbourgh & Trench a couple of months earlier and my main concern was whether I could afford some frozen fillets of plaice after deducting the money for the rent and the utility bills from my salary.

  Overwhelmed with work – which soon afterwards would become the norm – I thought I’d go round to a colleagues’ house for a couple of drinks and be back home by one o’clock for an overdose of subtitled Russian films.

  My car, however, decided to let me down at the second set of traffic lights, forcing me to make an emergency stop at my parents’ house. I don’t remember exactly how it happened, but within half an hour I was busy knocking back cheap wine and devouring salmon appetizers with some old friends of the family, convinced that I was now doomed to end up being part of the upholstery for the rest of the night. This not particularly alluring prospect was averted at the last moment by the intervention of benevolent Fates – or, at least, Fates who were drunk enough to have forgotten for a moment their usual and obvious goal of persecuting me, something they have done at regular intervals throughout my already miserable existence.

  I can see it all now as if it were yesterday.

  It was about ten o’clock. A quarter past ten at the latest. Lines of drunken forty year olds paraded past, doing horrific congas between the plastic-covered sofas. I, life and soul of the party that I was, slumped miserably by a plant pot into which had been dumped a bizarre selection of alcoholic concoctions, busily pulling the paper flags-of-all-nations out of a rock-hard quiche. In view of the unbridgeable social and attitudinal differences between us, I had long ago abandoned the idea of socializing with the rest of the guests.

  And then suddenly he appeared, a cross between Robert Redford back in the good old days and Benicio del Toro. He looked as depressed by the whole thing as I was, and repeatedly checked his watch, clearly wondering when he could slip away without the risk of seeming rude. An exchange of glances, a few off-colour jokes and five minutes later we were barefoot and locked in the attic with a bottle of champagne and an insatiable desire to confide all of our life stories and secrets to one another.

  The next day we met again for coffee, coffee became dinner, dinner turned into breakfast and now, after almost six years of patiently putting up with each other, I can say with absolute conviction that he is precisely what…

  “Noooo! What are you doing!” screeches Violet into my ear, seemingly attempting to transform Craig’s assistant into a pile of glowing embers simply through the abrupt movements of her eyebrows. The poor thing – a girl of twenty-five or twenty-six at most – immediately withdrew her hands from the dress, cursing her master’s degree in economics, the global recession and that stupid dependence upon actually eating which means she can’t give up this ridiculous part-time job that pays less than five pounds per hour.

  “What’s going on?” asks Aunt Molly anxiously, coming over to snoop.

  “Look at this,” mutters Violet, lifting a piece of the skirt. “It’s a disaster! It’s ruined!” she moans, pointing to where Ashley was putting in pins until a few seconds earlier.

  “I don’t think it’s that big a problem,” I interject in exasperation, but no one seems interested in my opinion.

  “How terrible!”

  “Now don’t overdo it, Violet,” begins my aunt in a conciliatory tone. “It can always be fixed.”

  “Of course it can,” reassures Craig.

  “My little girl…” comes a meowing voice from the back of the room.

  “Okay, listen…”

  Nothing. Absolutely no effect whatsoever.

  “I think you should try another one on.”

  “Violet, for heaven’s sake!” reproaches Lisa. “This must be the tenth she’s tried on and it’s already two o’clock.”

  “But this one isn’t right at all!” says Violet indignantly. “Not for her build at least.”

  “Nonsense!” shouts Aunt Molly in my defence. “There’s absolutely nothing wrong with my niece’s build!”

  “Oh, of course – I mean, she’s such a pretty girl,” says my future mother-in-law stiffly. “If only she weren’t so frightfully thin. Hmm…” she broods. “Doesn’t it seem to hang a bit loose there on the breast. Craig, can’t we do anything about that?”

  Upon hearing his name, the poor man approaches, pulls away the lace and uncovers the gown’s neckline which, I am forced to admit, gives a clear view of the cosmic void that our good Lord saw fit to bestow upon me. “We could tighten it up a bit,” he suggests, fumbling with the straps.

  “Now, Marianne… Marianne has a really beautiful cleavage.”

  Here she goes again…

  “And how much did it cost her?”

  The atmosphere turns icy.

  “Molly!”

  What an insult! The shame of it! Lisa, predictably, is no longer able to hold back her indignation and, throwing good manners to the wind, cries out my aunt’s name, attracting the attention of half the people in the shop in the process. “I will not tolerate such low insinuations about the daughter of one of Edward’s dearest friends.”

  “So shall I tighten it, then?” asks Craig in the meantime, an incredible number of pins between his tightly-clenched lips.

  “For God’s sake, somebody do something!” cuts in Violet again, momentarily turning away from the bickering. “It’s horrible! Awful! No, I’m speechless. No. No. It’s even worse like that. Bring the first one back. I think we should try the first one on again.”

  “Look, I’m exhausted,” I say – but my frustration arouses not the slightest interest.

  “And I won’t tolerate this attitude towards my niece!”

  Still bickering, they talk over me.

  “Attitude? What attitude?” says my mother-in-law in self-defence. “I’m just being honest!”

  “Don’t confuse honesty with spitefulness.”

  “Molly, the only reason I feel it necessary to express my disapproval is the affection I feel for Trudy. And Trudy, if I’m not mistaken, it was you who invited me to come! But if my presence isn’t appreciated…”

  Who invited her?!

  That morning she had called me to ask if I wanted to drop by and sort out the invitations, and I’d told her that I had to pop to the dressmaker’s first for a dress fitting. The illogical thought process that leads her to think my explanation was an implicit request for her company eludes me totally.

  “Well, anyway, it looks perfect to me,” says my aunt in the meantime, now well along the warpath.

  “I think we can stop,” I say to try and defuse the situation. “All things considered, I preferred that other one…” But I’ve spoken up too late. They’re going at it hammer and tongs now. All I can do at this point is wait for the crisis to reach its natural conclusion, ensuring that I’ve got the phone number of the nearest A & E department handy.

  “What? This one?” shrieks Violet.

  “We’re talking about a haute couture dress!” shrieks Craig, obviously thinking that the screams of three middle-aged women won’t suffice to entertain the entire shop.

  “I’m not disputing the quality of the gown,” protests my future mother-in-law. “I’m simply saying that, with this on, Trudy will be a laughing stock.”

  A vein in my temple begins to throb.

  “Well you certainly appear to know a lot about being a laughing stock,” my aunt snaps.

  I can’t breathe.

  “What?” shouts Lisa, sucking in her already sunken cheeks until she looks as if she’s been shrink-wrapped. “Molly, I will not put up with being spoken to like that!”

  “You won’t put up with it?”

  “Indeed!”

  “Oh, what a waste of time all this bickering is! The real problem is that this dress is a disaster!”

  It’s Violet’s voice this time, drowning out all
the other noises in the bare walled room.

  “I can’t believe what I’m hearing!” snaps Craig. “‘Spring Jubilation’ is one of the most elegant garments in my collection, and we are the most fashionable dress shop of the moment!”

  “Right! And then the alarm clock went off and you realized you’d fallen asleep on the sofa watching Say Yes to the Dress!” Violet retorts, leaving him in stunned silence.

  I blush.

  “Well I humbly apologize for the tawdriness of my mediocre dresses,” Craig says with disdainful sarcasm. “I didn’t know that I was dealing with Her Highness the Princess of Monaco in person.”

  “I may not have blue blood,” she responds irritably, “but I would never have chosen a polyester dress for my wedding.”

  “This dress is made of an extremely sought-after satin!”

  “Really? Well it looks like they’re still seeking it!”

  “My little girl…”

  “None of this would have happened if we’d only put off the wedding a few months, as I suggested more than once. They’re not ready yet. A wedding isn’t something you can just cobble together, it’s a bond that’s supposed to last a lifetime.”

  “Don’t listen to her, sweetheart,” says my aunt, taking my chin in her skeletal fingers to console me. “Don’t put your trust in dreams – put them in certainties!”

  “Oh, that’s the last straw! My son is simply a victim of circumstance. I never imagined that I would have been forced to remember how we got to this point – if Trudy hadn’t been so insistent, Horace would still be engaged to Marianne.”

  And at this point I explode.

  “That’s enough!” I order in a threatening growl.

  And from that moment on there is silence.

  None of them dares say a thing.

  They stare at me in stunned silence without emitting a single sound.

  I stop talking too, simply looking at them, one by one, through my bloodshot eyes, and when I am finally certain that none of them will dare run the risk of another comment, criticism or veiled dig, I gather up the train of the dress in my arms and walk away from the mirror.